


a madman

by parxdoxical



Category: POE Edgar Allan - Works, The Tell-Tale Heart - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: from the p.o.v. of a listener, i was actually pretty proud of it, it's basically a rewrite of the story, this was an english a level homework, who's a bit mad himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 05:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11617134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parxdoxical/pseuds/parxdoxical
Summary: A re-write of the events of "The Tell-Tale Heart" from the point of view of a young police officer who listens to the murderer telling his story.





	a madman

**Author's Note:**

> This was an essay I wrote for my English class and I kinda liked it so I decided to post it.   
> Everything in italics are direct quotes from Edgar Allan Poe's short story "The Tell-Tale Heart".

He was sitting in the chair calmly, almost awfully calm and was looking straight ahead, right into the detective`s eyes. I had heard of what had happened but found it hard to believe that this calm man was capable of such a horrendous deed now that he was sitting in the same room as I was. His eyes were shining, every bit of the madness I had been told, had overcome him, seemed to have vanished and he seemed calm, oh so calm. 

There was something about his calmness that chafed me, made me feel like he was superior, like he was in charge and I was not overly keen on this feeling. Neither was the detective, as I noticed, for he was becoming agitated, more even than I was. I let out a shuddering breath before I returned my gaze to the man sitting on the other chair, still so levelly, gaze fixated on the detective not even on me; be it what it would, it was starting to drive me mad. 

The detective began to speak and I focused my attention back on him, trying to escape the other man`s aura for a second. The standard questions were asked and I had no choice but to look back at the other man, suddenly feeling strangely on edge like he was looking at me, mauger the lack of eye contact. As he started to speak the feeling increased, causing me to inch forward on my chair, leaving the security of the wall behind me. 

_‘TRUE! --Nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?’_ , the man began and now his gaze touched me not even noticing my presence for his eyes, still so threateningly calm, so self-composed, merely brushed over my silhouette before turning his gaze back onto the detective. I shuddered, leaned forward, just a bit. I did not want him to turn his attention on me. 

_‘The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.’_ And he continued to talk and I was captured by his voice, the enveloping sound of his tale, like a fly, caught in the net of a spider, numb, motionless, awaiting its end. Yes! that was what listening to him felt like. The feeling of losing control but no, that was not appalling as it had been before when he had seemed so very much superior to me, I wanted to leave the control to him for he seemed calm, he seemed thoughtful like he knew things I could never understand and like he had heard things I could never grasp.   
He continued to speak, his voice changing over the turns of his tale, a spark would light up his cool eyes for merely a second before it would vanish again and I was trapped, hopelessly caught up in his mad mind. He told us about how the idea had formed in his head and I was now watching him with wide eyes for I still could not understand how any human being could work up such courage but I kept listening. 

_‘You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing’_ , he said and I wanted to cry out loud because that was not true. He knew more things, I could feel it, could feel the mist of knowledge lying upon him and I wanted to shout at the detective as I noticed him nodding, but I restrained myself quickly. After all this man still was a criminal. 

And he continued to speak and I felt sympathy arising within my chest, I forced it back because why --WHY? --should I feel sympathetic for such a person, a criminal, a murderer but at the same time, as I listened to his voice, telling us about his wise dissimulation, his caution, I envied him, envied him so much; for his mind had to be the opposite of the detective`s, whose seemed to be dilatory beyond any measures. 

_‘Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me.’_  
Without having taken a blind of it, I had been inching forward more and more as he told his tale and I was urging him to continue, quietly of course, only in my head. I could understand what he was saying, I, myself, knew the sound, I had heard it often before. He said, he knew it well and I wanted to jump off my chair and agree, wanted to chide into the conversation in front of me but I restrained myself quickly, sat back carefully, carefully to not make any sound. 

_‘Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.’_  
The man continued to speak, continued to explain how he had felt, how he had acted and I marvelled at his mind, at the control he held of his body, of his whole being. He spoke of the eye, the agony it had caused him, what it had made him to. It felt as if I’d been there that night, that night, I had thought to be gruesome but now – now it seemed like a gift, a gift to mankind.

It occurred as a natural reaction to me, my feeling of sympathy, of understanding because, yes, I could understand and I felt a wave of pride washing over me for grasping his thoughts, his feelings. Yet I seemed to be the only one for the detective was merely looking at the man, his gleaming eyes betokening the disgust he felt, his face practically screaming the word “madmen”. But the man continued mauger the look upon the detective’s face. 

_‘And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.’_ , the man went on and his gaze met mine for a second, his eyes lighting up for a mere second but still. It was no madness in those eyes, it was something else entirely. 

And had I mistaken it for madness? Yes, I had, but now I was not. I was marvelling at his mind and the over-acuteness of his senses, though I envied him still. And I continued to listen closely as he continued his tale and I could not help but admire his deed. However horrendous it might have been, I admired the man. He told us about the deed itself and by this time I had inched to the very front of my chair, half sitting, and half standing and I felt his pride, his triumph, I understand his reasons, I felt pride and gratitude wash over me for he had rid the world of the vulture eye. 

_‘If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body.’_   
He had dismembered the corpse. Of course he had, I thought, of course – OF COURSE – why hadn’t I thought of that? I was ashamed of my own oblivion, my own dumbness, how could I have not thought of a method of such simplicity yet such cunningness? I looked at the man and his eyes were shining with pride and yes, I understood his thoughts, his reasons, and once again, I was filled with pride. 

_‘There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!’_  
He chuckled and so did I, before I restrained myself once again with agony flooding through my body. I grew pale, hoping for the detective’s mind to be overly occupied with the genius mind sitting in front of him but as I lifted my head I could see aforesaid genius mind looking at me with a quiet chuckle and I had to smile. I couldn’t help it for now I knew that he knew, he just knew and I wouldn’t need to say anything. 

He then returned his gaze to the detective who had not even noticed the absence of his attention. The man continued to tell us about the officers, men I knew well, and I merely grinned at the floor in front of me as I heard about their dullness, how easy they had been convinced of the genius’ lies. His voice grew louder at once and I looked up to find the genius’ gesticulating, his hands moving at a fast pace, him speaking in a high key and he told us about the heart, the hideous heart, how it was still beating and how the officers were making a mockery of his horror and I looked upon his face, I noted the fear in his eyes. This was no madness. This was fear, this was horror. I wanted to help him, oh I wanted to help him badly, but how – HOW – could I? I jumped off my chair, did not look at the detective but I did not need to, for he simply stared at the genius. I still stood as he yelled: _‘"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!”’_

And having stood up before he now sank back into his chair as if all energy had left him, his erratic state gone, the aura of knowledge vanished. I followed his lead and I gazed upon his eyes, now dull, not even calm but merely exhausted and I came to think that maybe he was a madmen after all.


End file.
